


Gifts Have Fangs (You Cannot See) Remix

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's initial encounter with a newborn Sherlock and their second meeting nearly a year later.</p>
<p>P.S. Just some cotton candy fluff for my sister because I love her. Written on my phone while waiting for her to get off work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts Have Fangs (You Cannot See) Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LovelyCardinal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyCardinal/gifts).



Mycroft Holmes knew all about gifts. In particular, Mycroft knew about the unpleasant ones, which were the only gifts that mattered in his mind. He was a Holmes: A gift without price would never cross his path, and his parents ensured that he knew that.

Siger Holmes had always insisted that there were two types of gifts, each characterised by the person who chose it. Either the gift had been chosen with a specific intent using knowledge of the subject being gifted unto, or it wasn't.

A thoughtless gift had the quality of forgetfulness or effusiveness that often embodied who picked it out; That was his wife Violet's favorite game to play. Every move on the chessboard was calculated and seemingly sporadic: Every gift was specific to the individual, absolutely perfect for Violet's intentions, and seemingly thoughtless. Hers were the other kind of gift in disguise.

A thoughtful gift gave resonance with the individual that the gifter may (or may not) have intended. Violet used the mask of one gift to imbue it with the power of another. The gift recipients (and onlookers) considered Violet to be air-headed and careless, and she worked very hard to be successful at being careless and air-headed. It was an art.

That was why, when Violet Holmes deposited a small primate bundled in a blanket into her son's arms and told him, "This is a gift," Mycroft assumed that her usual modus operandi was in play.

Sherlock certainly seemed thoughtless. Why an infant should matter to a six year old, Mycroft had no idea. He recognised the baby's defining features easily enough - infants tend to resemble their fathers and Sherlock definitely resembled Siger - and concluded that, considering Violet's recent absence from the household due to medical concerns congruent with pregnancy, Sherlock was likely the progeny of Siger and Violet Holmes; however, a logical reason for why Sherlock was allowed to suckle happily at the edge of the blanket, staring with blank eyes at Mycroft's tie, was unknown to him. Mycroft suspected the child would rather chew on the silk and recoiled accordingly.

Violet laughed.

"This is Sherlock, your younger brother," she clarified, confirmed, staring intently at the emotions flaring across her sons' features. "He is three weeks, two days, seven hours," she paused to pull a large wooden jewelry box from her bag. She opened it and glanced inside. "Fourteen minutes, and an additional twelve seconds old as of... now."

Mycroft stared, dumbstruck. He wondered, briefly, how the actual moment of birth had been measured. Then he wondered why it mattered.

"It is unseemly for brothers to grow up estranged," Violet declared suddenly, stepping away from her children and toward the door of the room. This was ignoring that her eldest son Sherrinford had been raised by his father's family and that Mycroft had never actually met him. Nor, presumably, had Sherlock. "You will see each other twice per year excluding holidays, as is proper. Give him to the nursemaid when you are done with your greetings."

Violet placed the wooden box on the dresser that adorned Mycroft's northern bedroom wall. "Wear this," she commanded. "It looks analogue but it is adjusted digitally. It should always be accurate."

"What is that?" Another gift? A timepiece, a watch?

Violet grinned, her first truly emotional expression since she had entered her son's bedroom. "It is a reminder. Keep it on you always."

And then she left them alone. (Left to Rome for business, as Mycroft found out the next day. Not that it mattered just then.)

A little dumbfounded, the child stared at the infant. The infant stared at the tie. The child adjusted the tie one-handed, then flinched when the movement caught the infant's attention. Sherlock looked up at his brother for the first time. His eyes focused slightly as Mycroft brought his face in closer until they were nose to nose.

This wasn't the first infant that Mycroft had met. He knew that at three weeks of age it was nearly impossible to get a socially acceptable response from an infant. That was fine by Mycroft. He wasn't worried about societal acceptability quite yet. All he wanted was a response, anything at all to prove that the infant recognized that this was a momentous meeting of minds.

So he was a bit ambivalent when Sherlock sneezed on him. (And the tie, but that was beside the point.)

Mycroft flinched and gasped unintentionally, recoiling from the infant. He glared, affronted, and then he did something remarkable: Mycroft instantly forgave him. (Later, when discovering the mess on the tie, Mycroft forgave him again.) It was automatic, instinctive. It was to be characteristic of their whole lives.

He took the bundle to his bed and lay with his back against the headboard, pillows shoved to the sides. One hand was curled between them on the duvet. The other hand traced the infant's bones as the owner recited the skeleton from memory (with a few mistakes that he neglected to correct, despite the anatomical model pinned to the wall). Sherlock wiggled minutely and stared without any form of coordination, completely helpless, barely making a sound.

Eventually, they both fell asleep.

Mycroft waited until the nursemaid found them on her own before allowing the bundle to be taken from his hands. (Only until Sherlock was fed-- Mycroft slept in the nursery that night, just to observe the new creature for a few moments longer, counting his pulse and comparing it to his own.) Mycroft put on the watch moments later, donning it like a consolation prize--

_If I cannot have him, then I will live with his life against my own._ The normal watch face rested on the back of his forearm. The counter of Sherlock's non-parasitic existence was built into the buckle. Sherlock's age was displayed directly over Mycroft's pulse point, right where it belonged. It was similar to the phrase "wearing your heart on your sleeve" except that, in this case, Mycroft wore it just underneath.

Three days later, the nursemaid left to Rome with Sherlock. Mycroft didn't see his brother again until he was nearly a year old. During the interim the slightly callous and erratic six year old had turned into a slightly erratic and callous seven year old. Sherlock hadn't changed much at all.

Except he _had._ Mycroft took one look at him and felt the weight of the months boil over and consume his overly self-centered mind. He approached slowly, as if seeking the favor of a wild beast, and moved to appropriate the infant from the nursemaid's arms.

"How much does he weigh?" he asked.

She told him.

"Height?"

Again.

"How much does he eat daily? In mililetres, please."

The answer nearlymade him cry. 

The infant had doubled in weight and ate nearly triple what he used to. Mycroft had already missed so much. He'd be walking soon, talking soon thereafter. How many milestones had already come and gone? How many would he never know he had missed?

He couldn't forget that moment. Their eyes had met and Mycroft had known - even if Sherlock hadn't, not yet - that **this** was all that mattered. In just a year, in just this little time--

Mycroft had been caught by the other side to his mother's gift.

Every gift had fangs. Some had a hidden price, a mutual expectation of gift-giving or gratitude. Most holidays made money on this fact. Most government officials encountered it at some point during their career. Most individuals understood that this inherent "gift" was in actuality a transaction, though they might choose to refer to it otherwise.

Mycroft slipped the watch off his wrist and placed it in his breast pocket so that he could pick up his little brother. The infant forewent the use of hands and began chewing on his tie. Mycroft didn't care at all.

It was a gift. 


End file.
